


Carry That Weight

by orphan_account



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, I'm sorry to put John through such pain, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Pain, Self-Harm, Slash, Smut, it's not graphic but it's there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:48:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23951086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In India, John's anguish grows. John finally breaks down.
Relationships: John Lennon & Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	Carry That Weight

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who's here with yet another one-shot, instead than writing the chapters of the two multi-chaptered fics?  
> Yes, that's me lol.  
> Please, leave a kudo and an opinion for this lil one-shot.  
> Also, please, read the tags. This fic contains self-harm, it's not grapich, but it's there.

Nasty red.  
It was the colour coating John’s wrists.

The man couldn’t stop, couldn’t stop those nasty voices screaming in his head, screaming about how much of a failure he had been.

Too much. Everything felt too much on his poor tired body.  
He couldn’t sleep. No matter how tired he was, he couldn’t stop his brain.

He had an instinct, raw and completely maddening, he wanted to shout until he couldn’t breath, he wanted to punch something or someone until his fists would bleed. He wanted to claw at his skin and scratch his face until the tears would stop.

But he couldn’t. But then, then he found a little pencil sharpened, hidden in a chest of drawers.

“Johnny…”

That voice.   
John looked up.   
Paul, Paul fucking McCartney, was standing right in front of him.

His doe-like eyes were wide and shining with holden back tears.  
A hand was clasped against his open mouth.  
A guitar was on the floor, by his feet.

Dressed in those baggy, white clothes, similar to the ones John himself was wearing, he looked like an angel.

Oh, if only they knew.

John’s wet eyes posed on his face.  
He had done it. He had managed to make Paul McCartney look ugly.

A twisted, sadistic glee took over him.  
He was just happy to have arise some emotions into his best friend.  
Oh. Wait. Was Paul even his friend anymore?  
He surely felt not.

“Johnny...Please, tell me why you did this” whispered Paul, walking closer to him, cautiously, like he was nearing a scared animal.

In his confused state, John hadn’t even noticed that Paul had now reached him and was holding carefully his wrist.

He looked up, vision blurry and not only because he wasn’t wearing his glasses.  
Something wet dropped from his eyes.  
He hadn’t even noticed that he was crying.  
Or maybe those were Paul’s tears, that were now freely streaming down Paul’s perfect face.

‘Why did I do it?’ thought John, ‘because you fucked hurt me’ he wanted to scream.

“Everything is too much” he said instead in a strained voice.

He could hear Paul sigh, then he wasn’t holding his wrist anymore, but rather rummaging around the room, probably in search of the first aid kit.

John threw himself on the bed, his hand holding his wrist.  
The blood had stopped.

Before he could realize it, Paul was kneeling right before him, carefully bandaging John’s left wrist.

“At least” he said in a low voice, “It wasn’t a deep cut” he muttered, more to himself than to John.

His perfect eyebrows drew closer. “What is too much?” he then asked.  
John’s own bushy brow furrowed, “Eh?” he asked.

‘Nice one, Lennon. Now he’ll truly take you seriously’ he scolded himself.  
The thought made him extremely angry.

He was only a fool, wasn’t he? A fool who had fallen hard for his best friend. A best friend who will never love him back.

Paul took a deep breath, his eyes softening.  
It wasn't an angry look. Quite the contrary.  
It was one of pity. Strong and sad.

‘Poor delusional Lennon. Just because his loved Paulie don’t want to stick his precious prick up poor Johnny’s bum, he had to go incredibly mad’

John winced at that thought. He was not fucking queer.  
And yet, all he ever wanted was to get to shreds by his male best friend. He wanted, no, craved, Paul’s undivided attention and affection.

But nope. Paul had Mrs Asher with him now. Of course.  
Jane was easier to deal than John.

She wasn’t loony. She wasn’t so codependent on Paul’s love and attention.

John was losing it.  
He was losing that small sanity he had left in his body and mind.

Paul was still studying his tired face, the purple bags under his wide, dilated eyes.  
His brow furrowed again, but his eyes were soft as he opened his mouth to speak again.

“What is too much, love?” he had asked it softly, with the tone you usually use on a frightened small child.  
Or with a crazy person.

John had finally lost it. He had finally descended into the loony bin.

John gulped, hands fisting on his lap.

"Everything is too much! I can't sleep! I can't stop thinking! I can't. Fucking. Stop. My. Brain" he shouted, hands tightly gripping his messy auburn hair.

Paul gently grabbed his face with his hand, making him look up.

His brow furrowed again, “Have you been drinking…? Or worse...Have you snuck in some weed? God, John…” he said the last angrily. No, not angrily. Disappointed.

“No, McCartney, I did not drink nor I snuck in fucking weed” answered John.

Tears were forgotten and rage was quickly taking its place inside John.

“You’re so fuckin’ dense sometimes, McCartney. Why do you have to play with me?  
“Play with you…? John, what the fuck are you talking ‘bout? What do you mean by play with you?”

John completely lost it.

He started screaming and cussing at the other one, who was growing more and more upset.  
As he stood there, watching his long time best friend have the biggest, scariest mental breakdown ever existed, he couldn’t help but feeling guilty.  
He felt as it was his fault that John was this wrecked.

And yet, he didn’t know what he did wrong.

“John love, please calm down! I can’t deal with you when you’re like this” he said, starting to feel angry. He did want to help his best friend, he really did, but he knew he couldn’t if he kept acting like that.

Maybe he had said the wrong thing or maybe John was already too broken.

Suddenly, he found himself laying down on the bed, eyes wide.  
John was on top of him, straddling him. Tears were pouring in buckets down his cheeks.

“What are you doing?” whispered Paul. He couldn't understand.

He realized in horror that the other man was humping his leg desperately, like a dog in heat.

“What the fuck, mate?! Get off of me!” he screamed. John only whined harder.

“Please, Paul! Please! I’m begging you!” cried out the auburn haired man.

Paul’s eyes widened. “John, you can’t really want this…” he trailed off, looking deeply into John’s puffy red eyes, his beautiful eyes that were now swollen by crying.

“Just one time, I beg you!” he wailed.

“John, you’re not thinking straight! You’re just in desperate need of a shag-”  
“No, Paul! I always wanted you! I always wanted you to possess me and make me feel loved!” 

The dark-haired man’s eyes were as wide as saucers. He didn’t know. He didn’t know John loved him that much.  
Sure, Paul did love John, but only as a brother.

And yet, John was willing to give himself to him, in a desperate attempt to feel loved.

It shouldn't feel this right. 

Paul was no damn queer. And so wasn’t John.

And yet, here he was now, in bed with John, thumping in him.

He watched in growing upset how John’s back was arching; how his hard cock was dripping all over his stomach.

It was almost magical and surreal. And yet, it was the only truth, if only John’s high-pitched wails indicated something or how hot and tight his arse felt around his hard cock.

Things were escalated quickly. Paul could feel his balls tightening and could only growl as he kept feverly thrusting. John was close too, moaning Paul’s name over and over.  
Suddenly, everything stilled as they quickly reached complentation, John all over his belly and Paul’s chest and Paul deep into John’s tight canal.

The man’s eyes opened and were met by John’s languid ones.  
John looked so vulnerable, naked and sprawled out onto the bed beneath Paul, his legs still wide spread as Paul quickly retrated his slowly softening cock from the used hole.

He felt shame rise in his gut as he saw the proofs of what he just did with John, who wasn’t an occasional hook-up, but a person he deeply cared for.  
And yet, he had just gone and fucked him.

Because, as tenderly as it had been, with Paul carefully to not hurt the other, both physically and mentally, that thing wasn’t love.  
Only from John’s part. And Paul can’t help but feel terrible.

‘I just used my best friend’ he recoiled in horror, eyes wide.  
John was already asleep, blissfully unaware in the post-coital feel.

But Paul couldn’t help but feel sick at the sight of cum, his own cum!, slowly dripping from John’s used hole.  
And, much to Paul’s horror, some blood was also mixed to it.

‘I just raped my best friend’ he thought, nausea raising in him. In a cosciunt state, he might have remembered that it had been John starting all of this. That he wanted it.

Paul scrambled out of bed, quickly putting on his clothes and went out, without even glancing at his sleeping best friend.

He went out and emptied his stomach.

As the nausea passed, he made his way back to his own bungalow and into bed with Jane.  
Sweet, innocent Jane, who had no idea what her boyfriend had just done.

Paul fell asleep, unknowing of John’s broken heart as the man woke up alone, still naked and covered in bodily fluids.

His eyes filled with tears.  
Of course Paul had went away.  
To his beautiul Jane, who wasn’t a loon, a broken soul, an insane.

John and Paul both passed out, the sky full of stars.

India was a beautiful place, after all.


End file.
